Basket Case
by Zeng Li
Summary: Sequel to my fanfic "No Hard Feelings" and taking place between the closing events of Season 6 episode "Firehouse Quintet" and the unseen Finals basketball game. Explores Chet's exaggerated story-telling, losing his touch, and Roy's feeling like the team's Achilles heel.


**Basket Case**

 _By: Zeng Li_

 _Based on the characters and 'world' of the 1970s TV series "Emergency!"_

 _Sequel to "No Hard Feelings" and inserting scenes after Station 51's win over Station 16 in the basketball game from season 6 episode "Firehouse Quintet"._

Joanne DeSoto was the first car to pull up to the gym and rescue Station 51's A shift from having a long walk back to the station since Chet's station wagon was again derelict on the side of the road half a block away. On an ordinary day, the walk wouldn't have bothered the men, but they'd done the better part of it earlier pushing Chet's sorry excuse for a car. What was left of their stamina had been depleted playing the lost cause semi-final basketball game against Station 16 only to come off with a miraculous win. Chet was good for something after all, even if not for his unreliable automobile.

The injured among them sat alone and despondent as the long shadow of the afternoon sun cast a silhouette of the gymnasium out to the sidewalk where they waited. Roy wouldn't let anyone near him, even though Johnny had made a vain attempt to lift his spirits with a few one-liners about Chet and broken down jalopy.

Captain Stanley walked up to the passenger window of Joanne's car and leaned in. She smiled pleasantly at the patriarch of A shift. "Will you do me a favor?" he said. "Take Roy to see a doctor. He wrenched his ankle a little, and I just need him to be cleared for duty before our next scheduled day, all right?"

Joanne leaned back and looked for her husband through the glass of the rear window. Roy was slowly making his way to the car, limping slightly. His gym bag swung heavily over his slumped shoulder and his pride invisibly dragged along the sidewalk like a carcass. John Gage was following him closely but at enough distance not to alarm Roy. Joanne made a pitiful face and looked back to Hank.

"I'll take care of him," she promised.

The captain smiled, lopsided and sympathetic. He stood up and opened the car door for Roy, who muttered a faintly audible "Thanks."

"Take it easy, pal," Hank pat his man's shoulder. "Get some rest."

"I will…" Roy said distantly, sitting down and dragging his duffel bag in with him. The captain closed the door and nodded sympathetically at Joanne. Roy just looked down at the floor, closing his eyes to the world even as his wife lightly touched his knee. The captain waved and silently backed off. Joanne drove off slowly, no one in the car saying another word.

Johnny slid up to Hank's side in the wake of the DeSoto car's departure. "Is he all right, Cap?" the younger man asked.

The captain turned back to rejoin Marco and Mike on the bench, squeezing Johnny's shoulder briefly. "Yeah, he'll be fine. Just give him a little space, will ya?"

Johnny watched the turn signal blink steadily in the distance. Joanne turned at the next intersection, and the DeSotos were out of sight.

Hank's wife showed up minutes later and drove the rest of the guys back to Station 51 where all their cars were parked. The early evening sky cast amber hues over the back lot behind the apparatus bay as one by one, engines cranked alive and the men headed for their respective homes.

Johnny was the last one to leave. His Jeep Honcho was parked next to Roy's pickup truck. The blue Chevrolet wouldn't be going home with its owner tonight. B shift's cars were parked in the lot as well, but despite the companionship of other vehicles, the pickup looked like it was going to spend a cool, moonless night alone.

The emptiness of the Chevy's cab looked a lot like Roy's eyes the last time Johnny had looked into them that day. The machine would not churn its throaty V8 engine tonight, and all Johnny could imagine is that the same mousy silence would also consume its owner despite being surrounded by a wife and two kids once he got home.

He felt like saying something reassuringly to the lonely truck, intending the words for his partner. He stopped himself before he did something silly like talking to a pickup truck.

Johnny shook his head, reconnecting to the world as he turned the key to start the Honcho's engine. Why was he worrying about an old pickup truck? He would have offered to drive it home for Roy, but he didn't want to impose on Joanne to do another round-trip to bring him back for his own vehicle. The captain said to leave Roy alone, so he would. For now.

[ . . . ]

Chet waited for the last of his shift-mates to leave the gym before abandoning his rusted out station wagon where it had died on the side of the road. He'd spent the past 15 minutes pretending to be waiting for a tow truck before he hoofed it back to the gym to actually call for one.

A flatbed wrecker came for its incapacitated customer much like the squad and ambulance came for people in Chet's world. It wasn't the first time the old wagon needed to be towed, but perhaps it would finally be the last. Chet was unsuccessful pawning the machine off on the flatbed operator despite his vain attempt at marketing it in good light.

His garage mechanic had no good news for him either, but the fireman kept his own spirits up by engaging the man with unsolicited banter about the glorious events of the day for Station 51.

"I figured it all out, you see?" Chet invaded the man's elbow room while he rooted under the hood for which of the many defects caused the car to stall. "I'm not like all other people, it would seem. I can focus and do my work, but sports were never my strong suit until I discovered the miracle formula!"

The smell of burnt oil and dirty grease filled the air. Something broke in the engine compartment and clattered to the ground under the car.

"Everyone focuses and stays steadily balanced playing sports, right?" Chet continued, ignoring his wagon's prognosis. "I was off balance from the start! I had hopes of feeling balanced as I continued to play, but the more off balance I was, the more baskets I kept scoring. I know it makes no sense, but it's how I pulled it off!"

The mechanic wiped grease off his hands, walking away from the yammering man, but Chet just followed him closely and kept up the story.

"Cap was smart to make me the power reserve. He's a great coach, that man. Of course it took Roy going down before I had my chance. You should've seen it! Poor thing totally wrecked his ankle. Went down in agony and couldn't get up. I ran out to see if he was okay and through the tears and pain in his eyes, he gripped me by the hand and said 'You're our only hope, Kelly! Do your thing and save us in this hour of need.'"

The mechanic wasn't listening too much but was instead drawing up a list on a greasy slip of paper naming everything wrong with Chet's car and how it would cost more to fix than the whole thing was worth.

"I squeezed his hand, giving him some of my own strength to help him pull through the pain and anguish of his crushed ankle. I fought back tears of empathy and told him not to worry, I'd make him proud. Off he went to the hospital. The poor man will be in traction for a month, but it'll lift his spirits when I tell him we pulled off a miracle win, thanks to yours truly."

The mechanic punched a hand into Chet's belly, clutching the filthy paper. "Well, unless you have another miracle," said the mechanic, "I'd call the tow truck back and haul this hulk out to the junk heap. Maybe someone'll be nice and give you fifty bucks for scrap."

Chet wasn't amused, but he didn't need the validation of any grease monkey to keep his Ego inflated. His mouth had run away with his words, and any embellishment was lost on the uncaring mechanic anyway. It was a good story, if only it were all true.

He went home and filled the evening with phone calls to family and friends about his exploits, inviting them all to come out to the finals the following week. Those who might think he was exaggerating his prowess would be proven wrong if they could see him in action.

[ . . . ]

Joanne doted on Roy a little bit the next day, but he was determined to prove he was okay and not in need of any extra favor. He poorly concealed the pain and stiffness in his sore ankle when he first got out of bed, but the more he walked around, the looser the cramped muscles surrounding his injury felt.

Joanne insisted on going out to the pharmacy and getting him some liniment to ease the pain and warm the site. She was no stranger to a man whose profession often inflicted bumps, bruises, and the occasional in-patient hospital stay. Roy surrendered easily to her fussing, if anything to make her feel better knowing her husband's dangerous profession hadn't gotten the best of him yet. His minor ankle sprain came not in the line of duty but in recreational fun amongst the departments, but she would fuss all the same.

Joanne had no sooner left for the store with the kids when there was a knock at the door. Roy grumbled. He'd spent all morning walking around to show his wife he was okay and had finally sat down to give himself a little bit of rest.

"Hey, Roy!" Johnny Gage smiled at him when he opened the door.

Roy's first instinct was to slam the door and go back to sit, but he just couldn't do that to his rescue partner. He wasn't in the mood for Johnny's chipper mood, and if the man wanted to stay any length of time, he'd have to come down from it.

Johnny squinted in the sunlight. "Just figured I'd come by and see how you're doing. You know, Chet's been telling the guys on the other shifts that your leg's a complete wreck. I'd be happy to punch him in the mouth for you…"

"I'm fine. You could've just called and asked."

Johnny thumbed behind him. "Hey, I crossed paths with Joanne and the kids on my way from the car."

"They just left to go to the store."

"I know. I thought they'd never leave."

Roy abandoned his flat mood to give his partner a sharper look of disapproval. "How long were you waiting out there?"

Johnny shrugged. "Maybe half an hour."

"I don't believe you," Roy turned away but left the door open. Johnny walked in and shut the door behind him, watching Roy conceal any perceivable limp.

The younger fireman stood over him, brooding a bit and intentionally. Roy tried to look a little more alive and refrained from giving his foot excess attention.

Johnny finally sat down, having to displace one of the younger kid's toys to do so. "Roy? You can be honest with me. Everything's really fine with you?"

"Yeah. Fine," Roy said unconvincingly, snorting a laugh. It was his standard reply to anything that caused him emotional discomfort, especially in face-to-face confrontations.

"Well, I'm glad to hear that!" Johnny said with fake enthusiasm. "Because, the last time you used that line on me, a second later you fell over from heat exhaustion in that burning single's club."

Roy glanced away. Unconsciously, he crossed his leg up onto the other and softly kneaded his hands over the sore ankle.

"Did you get cleared to come back to work for our next shift tomorrow? Or did you use that famous line of yours to convince the doctor that everything's 'fine'?"

"Yeah, that's exactly what I did," Roy replied with enough sarcasm to retain doubt about his sincerity. "Look, I'll be back at work tomorrow, and I don't want any special consideration. The rest of you can go around singing praises about Chet Kelly, the new wonderous super hero, if you want. Do you really think he did our station any favors?"

Johnny spread his hands, welcoming an explanation.

"He did us the greatest disservice of the year," Roy continued. "We're going to the finals… Fantastic… We didn't deserve to win this game, and there are no more flukes left in the card to get us through to claim the championships."

"So what if we lose?" Johnny said. "Chet or no Chet, we got ourselves into the Finals. A little bit of bragging rights there."

"Bragging rights?" Roy became aware of massaging is foot and put it down. "It's one thing to brag you get into the finals, but if the next team wipes the floor with us, we'll look even worse than if we'd just lost this round and admitted defeat."

"Your glass is always half empty, isn't it Roy? Besides, look at what Chet managed to do for us. His story might be more epic than it really was, but the man really saved our necks out there. It's a miracle, and if he can even do half that good next game and we still lose, at least we tried and it won't be a wholesale slaughter."

Roy looked away. "See? You don't need me. We all thought Chet was the odd one out, and maybe it's me. Twisting my ankle is the best thing that could've happened for us. My pain, your gain…and everyone's happy."

Johnny's eyes shifted out of concern for what he was hearing, both in words and between the lines. He clasped his hands between his knees. "Roy…" he paused, letting a spell of silence speak for him. "No one's putting you down."

"Yeah?" Roy sighed sharply. "Well, I'm going to ask the captain to bench me. I'm hurt anyway, and Chet's the miracle worker. I'd hate to deny us a chance to win, or even lose with pride, by standing in his way."

Johnny rubbed his forehead. It was starting to ache his brain trying to find ways to assure Roy that he wasn't worse than useless. "We got time. We'll practice before the final game. We've all got motivation to try harder and get ourselves in gear. Me, you, Chet…"

Roy tapped his fingers on the arm of the sofa, still looking away. "Yeah…" he said, lost in thought.

After holding it in, Johnny finally just sighed. "Well, I'm glad you're feeling better. Guess I'll see you tomorrow for our shift then."

"Guess so," Roy replied with neutrality. Johnny let himself out, and Roy was again alone with his thoughts and self-pity. It was what he wanted. It was also what he wanted to avoid.

[ . . . ]

Hours had been wasted out in a community park while Chet attempted to hone his magic touch to keep it sharp for the game coming up in a week. First he blamed the sunlight in his eyes. Then he suspected that the hoop he was shooting at was warped and no ball could fit through it anyway. Maybe he wasn't off-balance enough. He walked rapidly in tight circles to induce a mild spell of dizziness. Finally as his shoulders were beginning to ache from incorrectly hefting the ball at the basket, a group of teenagers descended upon the courts and openly mocked him.

The fireman put up some arguments, but at best he was on their level. He soon found himself driven away from the scrutiny of bystanders at the public court and returned home. There was a rusty old hoop nailed to a telephone pole at the end of his street. The neighborhood kids weren't using it, no doubt remaining indoors to play the captivating video tennis game Pong all night.

After an hour, the sun was fully set below the western sky. Chet had grown tired of mindlessly flinging the big orange basketball with lackluster results. He had to admit the truth to himself: not a single throw had gone in.

He sat on the curb, the ball defiantly nestled between his feet. If he'd strongly desired for it to stay put on the ground, it probably would have magically floated up into the sky just to spite him. He rested his fists firmly into his cheeks, his elbows leaning on his knees.

"Well, Chet…" he spoke his internal dialog to himself aloud. "You've really screwed yourself up this time."

A bead of sweat trickled down the middle of his back. He whipped a hand behind him and against himself as if swatting a bug, just to keep the rolling bead from feeling so creepy-crawly.

Headlights came at him but pulled into a driveway several doors down, saving the self-dejected man from being in a prolonged spotlight so the world could see who the biggest idiot on earth was.

"What are you looking at?" he asked the stupid basketball. It was still mocking him, even as it sat motionless between his feet. The darkness of the fallen night had many street lamps and surrounding porch lights to betray its cloak, and as long as Chet could see it in the sparse light, he was facing off against his inanimate foe. "Eh…shut up!" he finally said.

He picked the ball up and headed for home. It was going to do his bidding whether it liked it or not. For now it was being carried off like a misbehaving child, tucked under his arm. At this time a day ago, Chester B. Kelly was hailed as the hero who advanced Station 51's ragtag team to the finals. Now, he was just a man sulking off in the dark with sweat stains on his shirt.

Once inside his rented bungalow, Chet took the dirty old ball straight to a waste paper basket and moved to drop it in. The ball nicked the rim of the basket just enough to bounce itself off and onto the floor.

"Damn you!" Chet yelled, swinging his leg and punting the basketball clear across the room. It ricocheted off a picture frame, shattering the glass, before glancing off into the kitchen. At least it was out of sight for the time being.

Chet grabbed the day's newspaper off the arm of his sofa and pulled it apart page by page, crumpling the paper into loosely wadded balls. He tossed it at the garbage can in search of a projectile that would cooperate and hit its mark. The first wad didn't fly right and missed, which Chet allowed as the paper required adjusting to a different size, weight, and drag coefficient.

The remainder of the classifieds section sailed unpredictably and littered his living room floor. None of the wads had ended up in the bin. Determined, Chet moved on to each section of the paper from back to front until the entire edition lay on his floor in a carpet of jagged wads. Not one had gone into the basket.

Discouraged, he dragged his feet to the refrigerator and sought a refreshing swig of milk straight from the carton. He was out of milk and hadn't remembered to buy more.

[ . . . ]

When A Shift returned Monday morning to relieve C Shift, the men fielded some cheerful banter from the men about Saturday's game and surprising come-back. Even Roy had softened his mood since the pain in his ankle had subsided with an extra day's rest.

Everyone was happy for them and for the sporty honor of Station 51. Captain Stanley's smile that morning had been infectious, and he looked forward to coaching his men towards a dignified loss at worse, and a distant glimmer of hope for a win. The only one glum that morning was Chet, who sulked into the common room at the station with his feet dragging so there was no doubt about his mood.

"I lost it…" he'd told his colleagues. The mysterious force was gone, and despite Johnny's encouraging him to reconnect with his magic mojo by tossing wads of newspaper at a garbage can, Chet could not sink one.

Multiple runs all day distracted the men from getting discouraged about their hopes for the game. Hank remained confident that they only needed a little time to collect their thoughts, work out some practice time on their days off, and everything would turn out all right.

The Final against Station 39 was set for Sunday afternoon.

To avoid Chet-induced transportation problems, the men of Station 51's basketball team took two separate carpool vehicles to the gym for the finals game. The gym was very heavily populated with family members and off-duty firefighters from the present stations and stations that were eliminated in prior matches.

The increased pressure to put on a good show didn't affect either team too badly, as their real life jobs had made them highly tolerant of high-pressured situations. Station 51's men huddled in the locker room prior to going out for warm-ups.

Chet argued that he'd be ineffective and was the most logical choice to leave on the bench while Roy argued that he didn't want to risk reinjuring his ankle, despite having gotten it professionally taped for extra support. Captain Stanley was left to make the decision and chose to put Chet out on the court at the start, everyone agreeing to the hope that their man might magically rediscover his hidden talent.

Roy warmed up with the team, trying his best to ignore the hundreds of eyes that showed up for the final round that his team was sure to lose. Being relegated to the bench was suddenly harder to overcome than he'd convinced himself of during the week. But once the game started, he was happy he wasn't out there causing 51's utter humiliation.

By half time, his wounded teammates sat around him on the bench like badly beaten soldiers. Johnny had mild abrasions on his arms from multiple falls while trying too hard. The captain had a bruised cheekbone after colliding with a taller man's elbow. Marco and Mike were thoroughly exhausted, while Chet stood before them with vain encouragement to go back out and "get 'em" next half.

There was no injury to any of the men more painful than the wounds to their pride over the dismal score of 6 to 78 at half time. The team voted to forfeit the lost cause, but Captain Stanley encouraged them to go back out there and lose with dignity.

Roy nearly turned white when Hank looked his way, the captain about to suggest he sub in place of Chet Kelly. "Hey, there's nothing I can do to save you guys," Roy argued before the captain even said a word.

It didn't matter. Chet was out; Roy was in.

Out of a poorly disguised attempt at charity, 39's players seemed to slack off enough to allow 51's men to score against them a little more in the second half. Roy's playing in place of Chet scored them a few more baskets bringing his team out of the single digits, but still doing less than enough to recover from the massive points deficit.

A loss of 22 to 127 was worthy of all the jeers they received, especially from 16's men who were in attendance, having been beaten by 51 the week before to earn an undeserved place in the finals.

After the match, the teams shook hands and parted amicably, but history among the LA County Fire Departments would record 51 as the answer to an embarrassing trivia question.

= = The End = =


End file.
